


Happy Hunting

by Doceo_Percepto



Series: Bendy's Murderous Adventure Across Moominvalley [16]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine, Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Bendy's feeling more eldritchy than usual today, Blood, Blow Jobs, Broken Bones, Foursome, Happy's jealous, I think this counts as a foursome, Other, Physical Abuse, Size Difference, Strangulation, Vaginal Sex, a lot of ink, and three are having fun, monster sex?, the Joxter's classic gaslighting, where one party member is forced
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-14 13:41:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15389982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/pseuds/Doceo_Percepto
Summary: Joxters are a frightening, dangerous species. Snufkin knows this better than anyone else. After surviving his own trauma with them, he dedicates his life to wandering the forests and helping other victims like him.But it seems he's being hunted. And this time, he won't be so lucky.





	1. Chapter 1

Snufkin knew what Joxters were like. He knew it perhaps better than any other Snufkin. When he was quite young, his father had done things he preferred not to remember, and when he fled, he was captured by a nest with dozens of groping paws, where he was passed from Joxter to Joxter and used like a toy by each.

It was there he stayed, for months. He learned a great many things he wished he had never known. He experienced things nobody ought to ever experience. Then, one night, a Joxter left him unfettered with the words, “you won’t run, love, will you? You’ve grown to care for me, the way a Snufkin should…”

Snufkin stole his knife, slit his throat in his sleep, and darted away into the night. He wanted to murder the whole nest of them, but Snufkins who survive were Snufkins who knew how to choose their battles.

That was many many years ago. Now Snufkin was feral and clever. He had learned firsthand what Joxters were like, but he had come out stronger. More knowledgeable. He roamed the forests with that knowledge, wielding knives for Joxters and counsel for Snufkins. 

“Their senses will always be better than yours,” Snufkin most frequently told others of his kind, “but they will never have your energy. If one catches wind of you, don’t stop running. Make yourself too much work to follow.”

He raided a few small nests – which was always the most dangerous thing to do, putting yourself right in the midst of several Joxters – and rescued half a dozen Snufkins altogether. These he armed from knives stolen from Joxters, and he taught them what they needed to know to survive. He had never been too good at comfort, but he would share tobacco and there was some solidarity in knowing that they had both suffered, both emerged, and that the victimized Snufkin could recover, too. This is the impact Snufkin wished to have on the world. He knew that he couldn't prevent such awful things from happening, but he could, in any small way, mitigate the awful plague that Joxters brought to peaceful places. 

By both necessity and his nature, Snufkin was always on the move. Ranging for miles with one ear tuned always to danger.

Now, however, it was winter, and that meant Snufkin could meander slowly, the way a Snufkin liked, because Joxters invariably got lazier and sleepier in winter, and many of them hibernated. For this reason, the cold was something Snufkin learned to like. He bundled up with a thin brown undershirt and pants, then two cottony white layers, and a scarf, and at last, a green windproof and waterproof cloak that hung over all the other layers. Three pairs of socks of varying thickness as well as a sturdy pair of waterproof boots helped keep the chill from his toes, as did his gloves for his fingers.

In winter, sightings of Snufkins were rarer, too. Most Snufkins traveled to warmer weather in the winter. This means that the crunching of snow and the freezing wind were his only companions. It was lonely, not quite beautiful, marked by dirty browns and bleach whites. But it rapidly became Snufkin’s favorite season. In the desolation there was peace.

He often traveled the furthest during this time, and this particular winter he descended into a snow-blanketed valley rimmed by a frothing white ocean.

It was in this valley that he heard a distant chittering. Snufkin knew that sound. He knew it well. It was a sound Joxters made while hunting, or while cherishing their plunder. The tone was slightly different depending on circumstance. It was higher, shriller while hunting, and that’s the sound Snufkin heard now. Though it was not close, and Snufkin could not otherwise perceive the Joxter, the Joxter undoubtedly could smell him.

Snufkin was immediately mad. This Joxter ought to be hibernating, and leave Snufkin well enough alone. Instead he was awake and chittering. Snufkin veered away from the origin of the sound, and glided through the snowy trees like a wraith. He traipsed through creeks, and weaved in wide arcs, all to shake the Joxter off his trail.

The evening, night and morning passed with no other sign of the Joxter, and Snufkin, though alert, felt content he’d probably been deemed too much effort to follow.

The next afternoon was blustery and overcast. Snufkin could hear nearby waves, and the bite of sea salt stung his nose. The ocean: treacherous in winter, but beautiful in its own chilly, fathomless way.

Snufkin followed the sea air. He wanted to see the ocean again, and squirrel away the memory into a safe chest, where he kept every memory of the ocean. This particular memory would be of the ocean on a dull grey day, in the depths of winter: Snufkin didn’t have such a memory yet, and was eager to add it.

However, he didn’t reach the beach before he stumbled across a small shape huddled against the base of a tree.

At first Snufkin tensed, thinking _Joxter_! but at a second glance, it was another Snufkin, with eyes that merely resembled a Joxter’s. He was dressed as if he hadn’t the first idea about how clothing worked. He wore three scarves, haphazardly wound around his neck and trailing off his shoulders and down his front. Though he had many layers on (ill-fitting and lopsided), all the layers were soft fabric. No protection again the wind or wet. He wore no hat at all, but rather a pine wreath woven with pink winter flowers.

He was, unsurprisingly, shivering.

Snufkin made a harsh noise in his throat. “Don’t you know anything-“ he started, and then stopped, because that’s when he noticed the injuries. Several thin raised white lines across his cheek, old scars. And new, fresh bruises littering his jaw.

The Snufkin's chapped lips pulled up into a painful-looking smile. “Oh! I didn't see you there. I _don’t_ know anything. Snufkins are dumb. Dumb as a rock.” He buried his fingers into the snow, pulled out a rock, and plopped it onto Snufkin’s lap. “Like that,” he explained, and giggled.

Snufkin felt sick. “You’ve been with a Joxter,” he said in disgust. Not disgust at the Snufkin, no. Disgust at what they had done to him.

“Oh, yes,” the Snufkin’s voice was now frenetic, but he didn’t stop smiling, “my papa, I love him; I want him.”

There was no limit to their depravity. The things they'd train Snufkins to say... “We need to get you away from here. Before he comes back.”

“I’m happy, by the way,” the Snufkin said matter-of-factly.

“Get up.”

“I’m happy. That’s my name. Call me Happy. That’s what they call me, so it must be right.”

“They? Is there a nest nearby?” One Joxter was one thing, but a full nest...

Dreadfully, the Snufkin's mental state seemed to be deteriorating right in front of him. He scratched at his own wrist, eyes round and panicked, “My name is Happy. Call me Happy. That’s what they call-”

“Okay, fine, Happy." That was a psychological issue to be addressed later, clearly. No time now. "How many Joxters are here?” Snufkin demanded. 

Happy keened at the name. His distress vanished, just like that. “Just one. My papa. He’s gonna do real funny things to you. It’s gonna hurt. It always does. Maybe if you’re good he’ll keep you, and we can be friends.”

“Okay.”

“But there’s Bendy, too. He’s not a Joxter.”

“What?”

“Bendy,” Happy giggled. “He’s the ink one. He decides if I’m worth keeping around or not. Usually the Joxter does that, but Bendy’s got me.”

This Snufkin was making no sense. No other species did the things Joxters did, and Joxters didn't normally take names - then again, neither did Snufkins. Maybe Bendy was a Joxter with a particularly horrible sense of humor. "Whatever. Come on. I'll get you out of here.”

“You need flowers,” Happy told him. “If you look pretty, he’ll wanna keep you instead of kill you.” Happy tugged a pink flower from his own wreath, and tried to deposit it on Snufkin’s hat.

“Stop that. Here’s a knife.” Snufkin forced a blade into the other’s paw (he kept several, just in case).

Happy stared at the knife. “Oh, I’m not allowed knives. They end up in my skin somehow.”

“You use it to stab Joxters.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because they're all bastards." Snufkin tangled his fists in Happy’s haphazard clothing to pull him up. Happy slumped right back to the ground. Snufkin let out a growl of frustration and then -

"Well, that seems rude. I'm not a bastard, little Snufkin. My parents were married, you know."

“Papa!” Happy said excitedly. Hissing, Snufkin spun around.

There stood a Joxter. His eyes were a soulless, wild amber against all the death of winter. He was bundled warmly in deep greens, and mustard yellow scarf concealed his mouth. A thin wreath of dead vines wrapped around the brim of his hat like barbed wire.

Snufkin crouched low like a fox prepared to attack, knife held defensively.

The Joxter yawned at the display. “Happy, what on earth are you wearing?” he sighed. “You need to tell Bendy that piling on clothing like that is not how one approaches winter. There’s a strategy, dear; don’t be afraid to correct him.”

“Yes, papa, but -“

“Say, where _is_ Bendy?” asked the Joxter.

“Papa, it gave me a knife.“ Happy held out the blade, handle end towards the Joxter. “I told it I wasn’t allowed knives but it didn’t listen.”

"Don't just hand it over-" Snufkin said in dismay.

“You’re no help at all,” the Joxter muttered. “You don’t suppose he got lost?”

This was ridiculous. Snufkin snarled, “Get away from us. Or I'll kill you.” Fighting Joxters was very dangerous. Though lazy, they were quick and violent when so inclined. Snufkin prayed the threat would be enough to deem him too much effort.

“Oh, I don’t want to be killed,” the Joxter said. “Would you really do something like that?”

“Yes," Snufkin barked. 

The Joxter tutted. “Well, I suppose I had better let you go, then?”

That was… unexpectedly easy. Suspiciously easy.

“Papa, it gave me a knife,” Happy whined.

“Shut up,” Snufkin dragged him a few steps away, eyes cautiously latched on the Joxter. The Joxter made no move to pursue. Instead, he waved.

“Do have fun with your new friend, Happy.” It couldn't be that easy.

“Papa!” Happy struggled to return to the Joxter. Snufkin yanked him away. Maybe this was a trick, but he wasn’t stupid enough to just hang around.

Leaving behind the Joxter, Snufkin forced Happy along until they staggered out of the forest and onto sand. The sound of rushing waves was now loud, and the tide a frothy white. His boots sank into the wet sand. 

“Come on, now-“ He hauled Happy behind him. He already hated Happy, and his weird, unnatural laugh, but Snufkin wasn’t saving him because he _liked_ him. As with all Snufkins, he saved them because they didn’t deserve what they were getting.

The two of them staggered along the narrow beach like two weird mossy rocks limping along. The task would be much easier if Happy actually walked properly but the giggling Snufkin didn’t seem to understand how to move in a straight line. This whole affair was ruining the perfect memory Snufkin wanted to capture on the beach, but there was nothing to be done. Helping came first, however angry he felt about it sometimes.

“A knife!” Happy was saying, “a knife, and he didn’t get mad! Oh, but what if he gets mad _later_ ….”

Snufkin disliked how closely the forest crept to the beach, trees leaning over and bushes spilling out onto the sand. At any moment the Joxter could change his mind (if he had even truly decided to leave them alone in the first place - unlikely) and step out of the forest to cut them off. But in the foggy distance, the beach widened. If they reached that point, Snufkin would feel more comfortable assessing Happy’s injuries.

“Keep moving,” he muttered to Happy.

“Here you go,” Happy said, trying to hand the knife back.

“No, that’s for you.”

“I’m not allowed knives.”

“You are now.”

“Did the Joxter say so?” Happy asked.

“Yes.”

“Oh!” Happy crowed. “I didn’t know you had talked about that. But sometimes things happen and I don’t realize it.”

“Shush.”

"Yes, Snufkin." Happy started fumbling with his paws close together, impeding their progress even more, and Snufkin finally whirled in front of him,

"What are you d-" His jaw dropped. Happy was currently digging the tip of the blade into his wrist, giggling faintly. "S-stop- what the-" Snufkin ripped the knife out of his paws. "What's wrong with you?" No, he had to stay calm. It was psychological damage from the Joxter, not Happy's fault. 

Happy keened, looking distressed. "I'm sorry, I thought you'd like it-"

"Okay, well, I  _don't_  like it; don't do that." Snufkin tugged out bandages and hastily wrapped them around Happy's wrist - luckily, the damage was very slight. He was just tucking the edge of the bandage in when Happy's head jerked up, and a joyous smile spread across his face.

"Hi, Bendy!" 

 Snufkin turned. Any words died in his throat. 

At first, he thought _wolf_. But there was no wolf on this earth that could get that huge. Instead of a long wolf’s snout, its head was disturbingly flat, with a sharp-toothed grin taking up half its face. The thing was almost nothing but bones, black as pitch, and what Snufkin had initially taken for fur was rather something like tar, dripping from its body and splotching the sand.

It stood deathly silent, horned lead lowered and a pointed tail swishing at its feet. The wind carried a sharp, corrosive stench that stung Snufkin's nostrils.

"The Joxter was looking for you," Happy said, as if he saw this monstrous thing every day. Maybe he did. 

Snufkin's grip on Happy became a vice. " _What is that_?" 

"No worries, love; I found him." Things really couldn't be any worse. The Joxter meandered out of the forest with his amber eyes dancing. “I apologize for the delay. Bendy did get lost, it seems, but he wasn't far.”

"What is that?" Snufkin demanded. He'd never seen anything remotely like this animal. And knowing that such a thing was in the control of a _Joxter_ , of all people... 

"It's Bendy," Happy told him matter-of-factly, while the Joxter said to the monster, "You see? He's fussier than most Snufkins. Not to mention he's armed to the teeth. Dreadful, isn't it?" 

Bendy's grin only widened. There were no eyes on its face, none that Snufkin could see, but he still felt an ominous certainty in his bones that the monster was looking at him - and  _only_ him. 

The Joxter's eyes crinkled at the corners in delight. "I do love that fear," he breathed. "Good enough to taste."

"Fuck you." It didn't sound courageous at all. Snufkin knew how to handle Joxters. But he'd never met one with a pet. Especially not one like this.

"You wound me." The Joxter simpered up at the creature. "He's just cruel to me, Bendy. Let's not kill him right away, hmm? Just capture? Shake him up a bit?" The Joxter's eyes turned back to you, and they were wicked as the fires of hell. " _Fetch_."

Sand sprayed as the monster sprang forward; Snufkin hurtled himself away, slipped in his panic, and then his feet were pounding through the wet sand, his lungs burning to suck in the precious air he needed. It was idiotically futile. 

Teeth clenched around his leg; he hit the sand and twisted around while the monster dragged him. There wasn't any time to _think._ He yanked out a knife, reared his arm back, and jammed the blade into the beast’s skull all the way up to the hilt. It stuck there like a morbid unicorn’s horn.

There was no bestial shriek of pain. No recoiling. No blood.

“He looks ridiculous now,” the Joxter complained from the side, casual as could be. Happy had dissolved into manic laughter.

Bendy didn't even seem to notice the blade. He worried at Snufkin's leg, shaking his head and growling playfully. The motions, which were probably effortless for Bendy, were wrenching and painful for Snufkin. He howled when something twisted the wrong way.

"Come on, dear, please take out the knife," the Joxter sounded pained. "He looks much better with two horns, not three."

Snufkin wrenched another knife from his belt and slashed wildly at the thing's face. It released his leg in favor of snapping after the knife like a cat batting a string.

"Stop it!" Snufkin shouted inanely, having to jerk the knife away repeatedly before Bendy could grab it in his mouth. Bendy made a noise that could reasonably be interpreted as a laugh. 

"It's nice of you to play with him," the Joxter remarked.

This time, when Bendy darted in to chase the knife, Snufkin timed his actions just right to dodge his teeth and gouge the blade right between where Bendy's eyes would be, if he had any.

"I said to take the knife out," the Joxter stressed, "not put another in, honestly."

"Snufkins are so dumb!" Happy crowed through fits of laughter.

Bendy now had two knives sticking out of his head, and he wasn't the least bit affected by either. 

The Joxter added, "dear Snufkin, you should know you won't get anywhere at all by poking him with knives, no matter how many of those pointies you have. Which seems to be quite a lot."

Yeah, Snufkin had figured that out for himself. He clawed at the wet sand, thinking of nothing but getting away, but a heavy paw slammed down on his chest. Bendy whuffled over his face, ink spilled over his cheeks and ran up his nose. Snorting and sneezing, Snufkin scrabbled to push it off only for his paws to sink into the disgusting substance. He coughed out, "Call him off, call him off, call your fucking pet off!"

"Pet?" The Joxter snorted, "Bendy, are you my pet?"

Bendy reared his head up and glanced back to the Joxter. He attempted some brief noise that Snufkin guessed was supposed to be a bark, but it sounded more like a wet grinding of gravel and metal. Through terror, Snufkin realized the absurdity of the fact Bendy was making a _joke_. 

More importantly, he had released Snufkin. Snufkin frantically crawled into the shallows, where the top silt of the beach was being rushed back to the ocean. Freedom. Escape. Until Bendy grabbed his arm in an excruciating grip, flipped him effortlessly onto his back, and then in the next second he was dizzily gazing up at teeth drooling black gunk, and a vast black cavern of a mouth. Then a freezing wave flooded over his face, into his ears and nose and eyes. Everything was disoriented, and the creature’s grip on him was gone. When Snufkin scrambled up, gagging and spluttering on salt water, he saw that Bendy had stumbled further ashore. Thick clumps of ink stained the beach while more was sloughing off in sticky-looking ropes – the worst of it, Snufkin noted, from Bendy’s head and lower legs: whatever had been struck with the water.

It clicked. Maybe he had a chance of surviving this after all.

“Happy,” the Joxter whined over the frothy tide, “can’t you go fetch Snufkin for Bendy?

Happy looked terrified.

Snufkin took several splashing steps backward (his hurt leg throbbed), heart racing, mind whirring. If none of them would follow him into the ocean, then it was the safest escape. But getting back to shore…. In summer, it would be no concern at all. In winter, crawling out from the waves drenched, probably exhausted…. Such a thing could kill a Snufkin.

The beast shook its head, ink droplets spraying, and its attention turned back to Snufkin, a low growl rumbling in his chest. 

If it was a choice between two deaths, Snufkin knew which he’d choose.

He high-tailed it into the ocean. The tide yanked him out to the open water, and he freely let it. His clothes billowed around him. Though he made no effort to swim in any particular direction, simply letting the water carry him out, he soon had to kick his legs to keep his head above the water, and every kick burned his twisted leg.

His heavy clothes bogged him down. Chill bit into his flesh. It was a little harder to breath, like his lungs wouldn’t expand quite right. Calm. Calm. Snufkin willingly let himself sink below the surface, and there he peeled off his overcoat. Lifted his head for a breath, then back under. Off went his waterlogged boots. Another breath. He ditched the top layer of his pants, and another shirt layer.

When his head broached the surface again, he felt dizzy, but lighter. Calm. He forced his lungs to expand, then he tilted his body toward the shore. He angled directly at it, but he didn’t fight the tide that still dragged him parallel, meaning that the part of the beach he faced was always moving. That was good. It would carry him rapidly away from the Joxter and Bendy.

Then long, slow strokes. He counted them in his head like the measures of a march, One…. Two…. Three…. Four…. One…. Two… Three…. Four…. while he kept his muscles otherwise as loose as possible. He was very very far from the shore at this point. He began to time his breathing with the strokes. Relax, calm. It became a rhythm. Gradually details came into focus as the beach neared.

One. Two. Three. Four.

When he finally reached shallow water, he was shivering in earnest, and exhausted in the clutches of waves that buffered and abused him. But he made it, crawling from the ocean like a wet rat.

On this portion of the beach, the forest was much further away from the shoreline. He had no choice but to leave glaring footprints in the sand as he limped into the trees, away from the wind.

He wore now only two shirt layers, and one pant layer, and they were all soaked. He’d also lost half his equipment to the ocean. But he couldn't linger on that, or panic might set in. Instead, he worked. He dug out a Snufkin-sized scoop into the snow by the base of a thick tree, and packed snow onto the edges. He stopped on the occasion to shake his fingers, breathe on them, stomp his good foot. Finally, he had built up a small shelter with thickly packed snow, and it was in this that he curled up for warmth after stripping off his final layers.

Okay. The next priority was water. He’d lost his pot to the ocean, and his matches were soaked. But his canteen was faithfully strapped to his hip. Snufkin removed it, quickly downed a quarter of the water, and then he stuffed snow to the brim and screwed the cap back on.

Snufkin wrapped his arms around himself, making himself into a tight ball to trap in as much heat as possible. Wriggling his fingers, his toes.

He had no spare clothing, no dry clothing. Nothing to eat. Night would be approaching in a few hours.

This was extremely bad. He’d been in tight situations in the wilderness before – it came with the territory of wandering by oneself. But nothing quite like this.

He hunkered down, prepared to endure or to freeze, whatever fate had in store for him, when crunching snow announced someone’s approach.

A garlanded head peered into his makeshift igloo. “Hi,” Happy said.

“Happy.” Great.

“Uhhuh.” Happy held out a bundle of fabric. “The Joxter said you'd need these.”

Snufkin’s eyes swerved around the trees while his teeth chattered. “Is he close?” More importantly, did he bring that hideous monster with him? It was something that Snufkin never, _ever_ wanted to see again.  

“Oh, probably," Happy answered cheerfully. "He pointed, said ‘that way’ and then he wanted a nap. He’s real mad at you, Snufkin.”

“Good.”

“Uhhuh, he said he’s gonna make your death nice and slow.”

Scowling, Snufkin emerged from his igloo, snatched the clothes, and quickly tugged them on – shirt, pants, socks, boots. A blanket over all of it. Still his teeth chattered as he forced out, “you need to pick a side. Me or them. I’ll run with you, but only if you cooperate.”

“Run?” Happy looked confused.

“Yeah. Away. From them."

“Oh.” Happy tucked his wrists close to his chest, eyes round. “No, no, no, I can’t – how would I – I _need_ them-“

“No, they’re just twisting you to think you do. That’s what Joxters do. Stupid mind games.”

Happy hunched over, gasping. “I can’t survive without them, I’d die, I’d – I’d starve, I’d-“

They'd ruined him. Worse than Joxters normally did. It was nauseating to see. He snapped, “you lived by yourself once, didn’t you?”

“I…” Happy’s eyes darted.

“You weren’t always theirs. You wandered, right? You were free.”

“I’m useless, I’d die, I’m dumb, I can’t do anything-“

“Shut up. You’re a Snufkin. And once you knew what that meant.” He stuck a paw out of the blanket. “Come with me; I’ll show you what it means again.”

Happy stared at his paw like it would strangle him. He took several staggering steps back. “Happy,” Snufkin hissed. “Come o-“

Happy tilted his head up, cupped his paws around his mouth, inhaled.

“ _N-no!_ ” Terror struck Snufkin.

At the top of his lungs, Happy screamed.

Snufkin swore. “ _Damnit_ , Happy, you-“ It didn’t matter. No point getting angry. He turned to run, and Happy snagged his arm.

“You can’t leave." All the doubt was gone, replaced by a manic smile. His expression was clear, rapturous glee,  _I'm doing right! I'm doing good!_

“Let me go!” Snufkin wrestled Happy off, prompting another round of screaming.

Snufkin took off running. He made it barely ten feet before vines snagged his ankles and sent him crashing to the ground. When he twisted around to untangle himself, he found they weren’t vines at all, but rather black liquid-like ropes, and they were winding higher and higher. As soon as he tried to shove them off, they latched onto his paws and began snaking up his arms, too. Within seconds, he was bound neck to toes, and constricted like prey in a snake’s hold.

“What is this?” he growled. His brain was slow to connect the dots when the acrid chemical stench stung his nose. An amorphous blackness bubbled up in front of him and formed into a shape - a shape with an unmistakable grin and horns, only this was a much smaller creature, and it had eyes like onyx. 

“Gotcha!” the thing giggled. “Boy, you’re really stubborn, aren’tcha? The Joxter thinks Snufkins like you are too much work but-“ here he leaned in, touched Snufkin’s lips, “In my opin-“

Snufkin bit down on its fingers. To his own shock, his teeth sank right in. Liquid gushed into his mouth and down his throat. He reared away gagging and spitting out the substance, while the creature stared. The stumps where its two fingers had been now oozed ink.

“Bendy?” Happy squeaked.

But that’s what they called that monster –

Bendy threw back his head and howled with laughter. “Happy, Happy, look, he bit off my fingers!” He turned, waggled his remaining fingers - a thumb and pinkie - delightedly. “Looks like a lil worm or somethin’. Wowee, nobody’s ever done that before.”

This was a nightmare. Snufkin thrashed, but those bonds flowed and clenched around him like a living thing. He could almost feel the sentience in the way they shifted over his skin, like some morbid full body hug. 

“Nom nom nom,” Bendy crunched his thumb and pinkie together like an animal’s mouth. This set off a series of wild giggles for Happy, who squished his own fingers together like it was some inside joke. 

It was during this inanity that the Joxter sauntered in. “What on earth on you two doing?”

“Look it’s a turtle!” Bendy yipped, his hand layered over Happy's.

“Very nice.” The Joxter’s brow furrowed. “Bendy, why do you only have two fingers?”

“Oh, he bit off my fingers. Should I have four again? Or eight?” In the time it took him to say it, his two fingers returned, then each divided in half until his hand sported eight fingers. “Nah that looks stupid,” Bendy muttered, and he was back to four fingers.

Snufkin stared, uncomprehending. He had to be dreaming. 

The Joxter’s glittering eyes latched onto him. “You bit off his fingers?” he asked.

He struggled afresh. This was complete insanity. He needed out, _now_. He was exhausted, cold, tired of fear. “That’s incredibly rude,” the Joxter said. “Not to mention you’ve had me walking all about today. You’ve turned out to be a great deal of work, Snufkin.”

Snufkin wrestled past the bewilderment and horror to snarl, “fuck you.”

“If you ask so nicely.” 

Snufkin spat at him. It missed his face, but landed on his coat. The Joxter’s lips turned down. 

“I know about your whole messed up species,” Snufkin growled. “I’m not gonna play any-hrk-" the substance clenched tight enough to cut off his air.

“Without us, love, you wouldn’t exist," the Joxter said calmly. "Bendy, do let him breathe."

The binds released, and Snufkin realized with horror that they were part of that creature. He had, of course, thought that the substance was like it, but the connection hadn't been fully cemented in until now. It really could become anything. 

“So feisty.” The Joxter blew out of his lips. “You’re the sort that used to be so difficult for me, alas. I don’t have fond memories.”

“Good. I hope they hurt you," Snufkin barked. The Joxter looked displeased, and Snufkin felt a surge of savage thrill. He _should_ be displeased. Snufkin wasn’t here to make things fun for him.

“Bendy-“ the Joxter started, but the monster seemed to guess his intentions before the Joxter could say a thing. A black tendril of ink shot into his mouth. The substance squelched in between his teeth and flooded the back of his throat.

Letting out a muffled moan, Snufkin bucked and arched off the ground. _Not again not again not again._

“I get exhausted just watching him,” the Joxter groaned.

There had to be way. There always had to be a way. He couldn’t let them to this to him.

“This is the sort of Snufkin that needs a bit of taming,” the Joxter said. “I was thinking of just doing something nice and quick, you know. A simple fuck and murder, the sort I love. But he’s caused us such trouble. I think we ought to take him home, take him apart slowly. Would you like a friend, Happy?”

Happy nodded eagerly. "Yes, papa, yes please."

“It’s settled, then. Home we go. And to a nap.”


	2. Chapter 2

They dragged him through the forest like a calf trussed up and brought to slaughter. Rocks and sticks abraded his back and side, and snow dampened his new outfit. When they reached their destination, it was a Joxter nest all right, just the sort of place Snufkin despised. This nest was a nightmare, built with more care than Joxters normally ever bothered to invest.

Vines were draped all over the clearing, winding up the trunks of trees and swooping between branches. In spring, they must be blossoming with flowers, but in the dead of winter they were little more than wire-like strands. The canoe nudged up in the corner was, also, buried in a network of dead vines and overflowing with white fluff that speckled a good five-foot radius around. Gathered by one tree was a collection of instruments – two flutes, an accordion, a banjo.

They’d obviously spent a long time here preying on Snufkins, if the bags piled by the canoe were any indication. It reeked of chemicals and sweet winter flowers. This place was disgusting. A den of evil.

Snufkin wanted to scream at them to let him go, but he knew how stupidly futile that’d be. And it would probably just amuse them, to boot. No, if he wanted to escape, he had to be strategic about this. Had to craft his escape.

That was made much more difficult by the black ink ropes winding around his entire body. They flowed over his skin like a living thing, squeezing and shifting: strong, and completely impenetrable. The idea that this was part of Bendy – that this _was_ him – churned Snufkin’s stomach.

The Joxter chuckled. “To think, you look determined rather than afraid…”

“Can I break something?” Bendy asked hopefully. The ink clenched around Snufkin.

“Not yet.” The Joxter tilted his head to the side. “Let’s do things slowly, like we did for Happy. This Snufkin has had us running around after him all day. Surely we owe it to him to draw things out, mm?”

Snufkin made an insulted noise. He burned with hatred. This was a depraved, baseless evil, worse than any other Joxter he had come across.

The Joxter knelt in front of him, cupped his cheek. “You won’t let me kiss you, will you?” he sighed. “You’d be the sort to bite. But it’s evening, love, all I want is some gentleness before sleep.”

Snufkin snarled.

“That’s what I thought… So stubborn.” The Joxter sighed and stood. “Snufkins don’t realize how nice and warm they are for Joxters on these cold winter nights. If you’d only cooperate.”

“Can I break something _noooow_?” Bendy pleaded.

“It’s not all about breaking, you know.”

Bendy crossed his arms. “I’ll bend him then.”

“ _Bend_?”

Exactly what he meant quickly became clear. The ink winding around Snufkin’s shoulders, arms, and legs contorted his body like a puppet’s, arranging him into a kneeling position while forcing his spine to arch backwards, not unlike a fishing pole straining with the weight of an enormous fish.

At first, Snufkin figured the scariest part about this was the sensation of being manipulated by something much stronger than him, something impossible to fight. Then pain flared in his spine, and the scariest part swiftly became the certainty that this creature was going to snap his back in half.

With the tiny fractions of breath this pose allowed him, he gasped, “d-don’t – don’t, please, just stop, don’t do this-“ There was no thought involved. Nothing about “show no fear” nothing about “don’t give them what they want.” Snufkin wanted to _live_.

The Joxter crowed. “How fast he learns to beg! Go on, just a little more?”

“How _bendy_ is Snufkin?” Bendy cackled as the pressure on Snufkin’s spine impossibly heightened.

“Stah-ahp-“ Snufkin’s voice broke. He was scared to talk, scared to move, scared to breathe. A touch more and his back was sure to snap. He could see the pure white snow inches from his face when he rolled up his eyes. Then someone’s shadow fell over him. Hands cupped his cheeks. “It’s okay,” Happy said, smiling away, “it’s okay for it to hurt. It’s better this way.” Then he kissed him full on the mouth. Tears streaked up into his hairline while Happy’s tongue swiped into his mouth.

Snufkin instinctively convulsed, and regretted the extra strain on his back. “Don’t-“ he growled, muffled by someone else’s lips and tongue, and when Happy ignored it, Snufkin bit his tongue.

“Ow!”

“Did you bite him?”

“Hey, he’s my favorite-“

Snufkin’s back wrenched, he squeaked, something popped.

“It seems only fitting to bite him back,” said the Joxter conversationally.

“My tongue-“ Happy keened.

“Hi,” came a voice abruptly close and very cheerful. “Don’t bite my things, mmkay?” In the next second, teeth punctured through Snufkin’s forearm. Snufkin seethed, and it built into a yell.

Then he was released – by ink and teeth alike – and flopped to the ground like a dead fish, where he immediately curled into a fetal position (oh, his back, his back, something had to be torn, overstretched, pulled).

He felt as if his psyche were split in two – one half of him shaking on the ground, and the other half looking in from the outside, viciously cynical of his behavior. This was not fighting back. This was not being tough. This was not like him at all.

They hadn’t even done anything particularly vile to him yet, and he was lying there, nearly sobbing? That wouldn’t help (but being in the grip of something that for all intents and purposes seemed indestructible, all-powerful) – no, this was pitiful. Being intelligent, finding an escape route: that’s how one survived.

_Now wake up: they’re doing something to you._

Snufkin jerked back into one being. Happy was knotting ropes around his arms while the ink retreated.

“Just like that,” the Joxter was saying. “And then tighten that end – yes. See, dear, I knew you knew how to do knots. You’d just forgotten.”

His wrists were now bound by rope in front of his body. It occurred to Snufkin that he was starting to panic. Having some difficulty breathing. 

 _Panic,_ he thought to himself, _is not conducive._ Planning is. Plan more. Plan. Any nest could be escaped.

“Ah, you’re paying attention again,” noted the Joxter. “You should know then, you’ll be joining me in my nest. A lovely warm body, no?”

“Let's play Snufkin a song,” Bendy said, “Something to welcome Happy’s new friend!”

Snufkin spat some very impolite words, but Bendy was already running off to the collection of instruments. He snatched a banjo and offered it to Happy.

The Joxter groaned as he clambered into his canoe. “Oh no, please don’t make him play that thing again. He doesn’t know the first thing about that instrument.”

“That’s why I’m teaching him!”

“You don’t know how to play it either.”

“Don’t be silly, Jox.”

They were all completely insane.

“Well,” the Joxter grumbled, “if you’re going to do that, at least hand me that Snufkin, won’t you? I’ll need someone to provide emotional comfort after hearing Happy play.”

“Yeah, yeah.” A line of ink wound its way over the ground, then reared up into a huge hand that snared Snufkin and sent fresh pain exploding from his spine.

For a few seconds, he was dangled above the ground, air rushing out of his lungs in terror, and then the hand unceremoniously dumped him in the fluff of the canoe.

Snufkin scrambled as far from the Joxter as he could get. “ _What is he_?”

“ _Who_ ,” The Joxter corrected, sidling close and caressing Snufkin’s chest. “ _Who_ is he.”

“What is he?” Snufkin growled.

It was then that Happy started playing the banjo. Though _playing_ was a very generous description. It was more that he strummed the strings with a clumsy hysteria, making a loud fast paced cacophony that apparently passed as music, because Bendy launched into a dance, dark and wild against the snow.

The Joxter rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It’s awful, isn’t it? He gets to playing, and he gets to dancing, and then I never get any sleep…”

“You’re sick.”

“That’s uncalled for,” the Joxter chastised as he brought a green shoddily sewn blanket to gather around himself and Snufkin.

There was no point reasoning with a Joxter. The whole species was rotten to the core. And they said such pretty words like they knew anything at all about politeness or morality. It was poison to listen to them.

Snufkin pointedly turned his head away – away from Bendy and Happy, away from the Joxter, towards the swiftly darkening woods. His back ached. He was scared, and cold. But he had to stay hopeful. Or if not hopeful, then determined. Sometimes hope was too much to ask for, and he knew that well.

The Joxter tsked. “Now, don’t be-“ his words were arrested by a sharp, wet cough. Snufkin flinched when something spattered on him. Liquid red speckled the Joxter’s lips.

“Ah,” the Joxter said, licking his lips clean, “no need to worry. That happens sometimes, dear.”

That just _happens_? There was something off in his head; something worse than other Joxters, and Snufkin hadn’t thought the lot of them could get any worse. He just wished that whatever physical ailment the Joxter had, it would kill him faster.

The Joxter patted his coat, dabbing away the dots of blood. “Anyway, I can tell you’re a clever sort. You must be thinking right about now how you might be able to escape, isn’t that right?”

That was pretty obvious.

“You may be thinking, if you know a thing or two about Joxters, that you’ll wait until I’m asleep, and then flee.”

Yes. And maybe slit his throat for good measure, if Snufkin could get his hands on a knife again.

“But you see –“ the Joxter pointed at the Snufkin with his haphazard flower crown and manic smile. “Happy here doesn’t sleep all that much. He’ll know if you get up.”

Great, they had a Snufkin as their watchdog.

“And oh,” the Joxter’s eyes widened comically. “How could I ever forget? Bendy simply doesn’t sleep. Ever. And he’s going to keep an eye on you all night. How silly of me to not mention that earlier.”

Snufkin hissed. That couldn't be true. Every living thing slept. (Except Bendy wasn’t like any other living thing).

“No need for that. I should think that you’d be thanking me.”

“There’s nothing to thank you for,” Snufkin finally bit out, when he was certain his voice wouldn't shake.

“You don’t think so?” The Joxter raised his eyebrow. “Why, it’s because of me you’re alive still.”

“You had nothing to do with it.”

“No? Don’t you see him?” The Joxter tilted his head towards the demon. What a stupid question. It was impossible not to notice him, especially with the racket Happy was making. But the Joxter’s smile was wicked. “Don’t you know, dear Snufkin, that he’d like to rape you, as that beast you saw earlier? You remember, yes?”

Yeah, that monster was a little hard to forget. Then the Joxter’s words caught up with Snufkin.

“Yes, I see you understand.” The Joxter’s eyes gleamed with foul pleasure. “It’s quite a thing to behold. Whatever you’re imagining, I assure you it’s so much worse. He has spikes, you see.”

_Spikes?_

“You know.” The Joxter’s fingers trailed over his clothed dick. “Spikes along every inch. That’s quite a lot of spikes and quite a lot of inches. He tears right through Snufkins.”

Snufkin’s guts twisted in revulsion. No, no, why did he have to meet _them_ , of all the awful people-

“Oh, it’s okay…” black gloved fingers soothed over Snufkin’s cheeks in perfidious affection; Snufkin twisted his head away. “Nothing to fear, love, nothing to fear. It is frightening, I know. My heart hurts for you, for how afraid you must be. But-” the Joxter forcefully cupped Snufkin’s cheeks and gazed at him with a look that would be affection, if Snufkin didn’t know better. “But _I’m_ here,” he stressed.

Snufkin’s legs weren’t tied, and he considered the merits of kicking the Joxter where it would hurt most. But with Bendy and Happy very much awake and nearby, it couldn't end well (and if the Joxter was telling the truth about Bendy…).

“Your papa’s here,” the Joxter susurrated, eyes lidded. “As long as you’re good to me, I’ll protect you from the awful, awful things he wants to do to you….”

This Joxter was sick. Sicker than the rest. He wanted Snufkin to be grateful. Grateful for having his freedom and choice stolen. Grateful to be in the bed of a disgusting, sadistic person. 

“Come now, don’t look so pouty…” The Joxter’s legs twined with his. Snufkin could feel his erection on his thigh. It disgusted him. “Smile for your papa, hmm?”

Snufkin wasn’t going to smile. It was to the horrible racket of the banjo that he was raped. He didn’t scream, he didn’t cry. His mind excused itself, briefly, to where the pain was little more than a dull pressure. He foggily returned when it was all said and done, and the Joxter, sated, was coiled up against his side.

Snufkin’s pants were down, and cum trickled from between his legs.

Happy was still playing; Bendy was still dancing. Snufkin burned with rage. It was best to be angry. Any other emotions he could examine and work through later, once he was free. For now, he needed anger.

The sky overhead darkened. Snufkin waited, biding his time, stewing in the fury he needed. It was deep into the night when Happy finally stopped playing with a discordant crash of notes. He was crying instead: short, pitiful sobs, and apologizing hysterically. Snufkin had trouble catching the words, but it was something about not being able to play any more. Bendy’s voice murmured to him soothingly: whispering awful, twisted things, no doubt. Poisoning his mind.

What a wretched, nightmarish place. Snufkin wanted desperately to get Happy away from here, but at this point he wasn’t sure he could save them both. Happy might have to get left behind. The thought was like thorns in his heart, because Happy didn’t deserve any of this, but one Snufkin surviving was better than none.

Happy dissolved into hiccups and whimpers, and then finally Snufkin heard nothing more from him. The darkness at this point was absolute. Snufkin could only faintly make out the outline of the Joxter snuggled up against him.

There was pattering of small feet. To one of the end of the clearing, then back. A long silence, long enough that Snufkin started to wonder if Bendy was still around. Then there was a splash and Snufkin flinched at the suddenness.

_Go to sleep you monster._

(What if he never did?)

_All living things sleep._

A soft chuckle. Feet pattering again. A series of wet sucking noises, and heavy droplets striking the ground. What in the creator’s name was he doing? More droplets splattering, a cracking noise like split wood, the rustling of a branch.

Then silence. Snufkin waited. The silence stretched on. Still he waited. There was such a thing as too much caution, but there were still many hours of night left, and enough time to be careful.

An hour or more of silence may have passed, and still Snufkin waited, and did not sleep. Once he finally deemed it safe, he sidled his body in such a way that the Joxter’s head nicely reclined on his belly. Snufkin’s wrists and ankles were bound, and his knives had been removed, but these limitations were not going to stop him. Delicate as a lover’s embrace, his forearms encircled the Joxter’s head. His bound wrists tucked under the Joxter’s chin, nestled up against his throat. Snufkin took a careful, steadying breath. No room for error. Error meant noise. Error meant Happy or Bendy waking up. Error meant no escaping.

One more steadying breath. Then every muscle clenched. He jerked the rope hard against the Joxter’s throat, and used all the strength in his body to keep the other’s windpipe crushed.

The Joxter spasmed awake. Snufkin could barely see him in the darkness, but he felt the Joxter’s limbs flailing wildly, and his body arching and twisting like a rabbit caught in a snare.

Snufkin’s mind slipped into the cold, hateful detachment that it always did for this kind of task. It was just about maintaining now. Waiting for him to die. The Joxter’s fingers scratched at Snufkin’s arms. That was nothing. There were much worse wounds.

The Joxter clawed behind him, as if trying to dig his filthy nails into Snufkin’s face, but Snufkin leaned out of his reach. Leaning hurt his sore back, but again, minor worries. The Joxter wouldn't last much longer, and that was the important thing. But then he pounded his fist hard against the canoe’s hull, making a dull series of thuds.

Damnit. Snufkin tightened his grip. The Joxter’s protests weakened. Just a few seconds more. Just a few s-

Wet fingers wrapped around Snufkin’s throat. He could not breathe. Blood did not reach his brain. And then the bones in his right wrist crunched like hard candy. His left elbow snapped the wrong way and dumbly struck the Joxter’s cheek. All that happened in two seconds flat, and only after it happened did Snufkin realize he was in the grip of about a dozen black many-fingered hands. Every one of them wanted him off the Joxter, and was ready to bend and break his body to work him off. Snufkin understood this too late.

Then all of them were tugging him, hard. Pulling him. His spine struck the edge of the canoe and almost bent in half. Without waiting, they yanked him bodily over the side.

He hit the ground with a splash. There was nothing to talk to, nothing to reason with. Nothing to fight. Just a black mass swarming upon him, gripping every limb, wrenching him open and apart with terrifying ease. A hand smothered his face and slammed his skull on the wet ground, again, again, again. His body jerked like a cow with a slit throat.

It all happened in mere seconds. Then everything blinked out.

 

When he came to, his head was splitting with pain. Everything was in pain. He was completely naked. His legs were tied painfully apart, and his wrists bound above his head to a tree trunk, forcing him into an upright position. It felt like more bones were broken than not.

He was absolutely covered in black writing. PLEASE FUCK was scrawled over his belly, with an arrow pointing between his legs. SLUT and WHORE decorated his thighs, while more derogatory words stained all the remaining available canvas of his body. He was shivering uncontrollably, and everywhere his skin touched the snow was pink-red.

Snufkin took all this in. He felt shattered. Like little pieces of himself were swimming in a pool of ink and he couldn’t seem to gather them all together to make sense of himself or of what had happened. All his reasoning and defense mechanisms floated about, not quite connecting into any single thought that he could act upon.

Clanking pots alerted him to the Joxter, who was cooking some roots in the hazy grey morning. The Joxter’s eyes were bloodshot, and vicious bruises peeked from beneath his scarf. Normally, Snufkin would feel a thrill of satisfaction at seeing such a thing. Right now, he was having trouble feeling anything but shock.

“Ah, you’re awake.” The Joxter stretched, stood, wandered close. From beneath the brim of his hat, amber eyes ringed with red glimmered.

Snufkin stared. _Come on_ his brain prompted. _A Joxter, you know how to handle this. Don’t give him any satisfaction. Stay angry._

Angry was a state he was having trouble relating to right now. He was scared. His teeth were chattering.

Silently, the Joxter removed one glove, unbuttoned his pants, and pulled himself free. It was with complete nonchalance that he worked himself to arousal. Then, a few minutes later, white splattered on Snufkin’s bare chest.

The Joxter puffed his pipe, pulled up his pants and returned to the campfire.

Snufkin wanted to cry, but he was blank-faced, slack-jawed. He felt stupid, unreal.

 _Stop this_ he thought. _You can handle trauma. You can handle this._

No Joxter had ever caused so much damage.

_This is when you step up and prove you can handle more. Find a way out of this. Are you strong or not?_

No. He really really didn’t feel strong.

_You know what it is to survive. Shake yourself awake. Focus. Escape._

His lips trembled. Then the tears came.

“Oh, hush,” the Joxter snapped. “I don’t want to listen to you boo-hooing over there. You’ve gotten what you deserved.”

What if this was one situation he couldn’t get himself out of? If yesterday was his last day as a free Snufkin? He’d always suspected, deep down, that he was going to get caught and it would be the end of him. But he’d thought of it as a distant, far-off thing. It was much too early for that to happen already.

“Now, that’s enough.” The Joxter rose in a flurry of fabric. Snufkin shook as he approached. “I said, enough.” The hard clout whipped Snufkin’s head to the side. Then again, again, again. By the end, the left side of his face was swollen from hairline to jaw.

“You've gone and stained my glove, naughty Snuh-,” a hacking cough forced the Joxter to bend double. Fresh blood dotted the snow, and the Joxter’s expression turned positively ugly. “You made it worse.”

Yet again, this was a point that Snufkin would have previously felt great pleasure at, and now only felt dread.

“F-freezing-“

“Yes, I told them you couldn't survive long stark naked, but did they listen…”

“Whu-where a-a-are th-th-“

“Oh, stop trying. They’re g-ck!” the Joxter was again interrupted by a fit of coughing that ended with trails of blood dribbling from his lips. His pale eyes were quietly, sinisterly enraged. “Look what you did,” he said, the words as rigid as freshly laid train tracks.

Snufkin whimpered. _Whimpered_. He couldn't muster the lashing response he once would have given.

The Joxter stuck two gloved fingers in his own mouth, and drew them away with blood. In that same emotionless voice, he continued, “it was just fine until you had to cause trouble. I said, look what you did.” Then he shoved those fingers into Snufkin’s mouth.

Snufkin instinctively jerked, but that motion tugged the rope around his broken wrist, and he howled from the sharp splinters of pain.

“Look what you did,” the Joxter repeated, eyes distant and pale. “Look what you did,” as he thrust his fingers in and out of Snufkin’s throat.

Snufkin gagged, then vomited. The Joxter jerked his hand out of the way just in time, and made a disgusted noise. “Mostly water. It should be blood, don’t you think?”

Snufkin’s teeth chattered. He would die of hypothermia before long, he was sure of it. Better that way. Better to die fast, at the hands of nature rather than the hands of the Joxter, or Bendy.

The Joxter hummed and huffed. “I know what to do.” And then he was plodding off, into the forest. Time passed oddly. Snufkin shook so hard his bones hurt. Then he felt quite numb. Finally the Joxter returned, a fistful of tiny leaves clutched in his gloves.

He said, quite conversationally, “nettles. Open up, hmm?”

Snufkin found the energy to scream when the Joxter forced the stinging plants into his mouth, and poked them down his throat.

 

 

Snufkin jolted awake in the canoe, buried in fluff and blankets, unaware that he had ever fallen unconscious. He was warm. Too warm, maybe. Feverish. He tasted blood. Happy was on top of him, fingering him with chilly fingers.

Joxter was settled at the head of the canoe, another blanket draped over his shoulders. “Ah, you’re awake.”

Snufkin was ashamed of the mewl that rose from his throat. He shifted as if to detangle himself, only to be reminded of the fact so many bones in his body were broken.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” the Joxter murmured.

“We got you out of the cold, though,” Happy nibbled his ear. “I promise I’ll make you feel better. You’ll learn to like it, I promise.”

“Stop-“

“Shhh,” Happy soothed. “Trust me, the faster you embrace it, the easier it’ll be. I fought, too. For a lot longer. And it’s just wrong to do that.”

Snufkin didn’t feel much pity for Happy anymore. He hated hearing his voice. He hated hearing what he was supposed to be like. The sheer frustration of the situation made him want to scream. He wanted to bury knives in everyone and just run. But how could he at this point? His muscles all felt like cotton. His skull throbbed.

“You broke fast, it seems,” the Joxter remarked.

No. Something primal in Snufkin shook itself and staggered to its feet. Fight. He had to fight. He made a stupid, slurred noise, and weakly tried to push Happy off (right, his wrist was broken, swollen to twice its size and bruised purple).

Happy shushed him. “This is for the best. I’m just trying to work you open. It’s good to be a little looser, because it hurts less that way.”

“No!” Snufkin managed to bark through his raw throat.

“Yes,” purred the Joxter. “Come here, dear…” Gentle hands coaxed his head up. Thumbs worked his mouth open, and then the Joxter’s dick was nudging at his lips.

 _No!_ Snufkin’s teeth gnashed as if the Joxter was already inside. Meanwhile, his legs scrunched up, kicked and pushed at Happy’s stomach and thighs. Off off off. He wanted to be free. His feet tangled in the blankets, kicked them all away.

The Joxter hissed. “Why don’t you cooperate? You must have a nice warm mouth…”

Happy giggled. “It doesn’t give up.”

Snufkin bucked, twisted, and finally managed to squirm his way out from under Happy. He grasped at the edge of the canoe and leaned over – he had to escape, had to run –

“Bendy,” the Joxter growled.

No. Not him. He couldn't escape him. That was all the time Snufkin had before a shadow fell over him. Heavy drops of liquid plinked on his back and head. Snufkin recoiled – flee, flee the other way – and claws wrapped around his skull, keeping him firmly in place.

“He won’t take me in his mouth,” the Joxter whined, “always trying to bite.”

Something huge and wet and cold lathered messily over Snufkin’s lips. He scrunched up his face, clenched his teeth, but he couldn't jerk away, not with this horrible creature clutching him.

“No spikes?” came Happy’s voice, sounding surprised.

“Well, the point _is_ training him-“ the Joxter started, but Snufkin missed most of the words due to the sickening sensation of ink slithering through the gaps in his clenched teeth. Once inside his mouth, it thickened, furled against the roof of his mouth and his cheeks, licked along his tongue. Even the ink filtering through his teeth seemed to thicken, and then it was, awfully, prying his jaws apart.

Snufkin nearly screamed in terror. No matter how hard he tried to keep his teeth clenched, the force prying his mouth open was much stronger. When he tried to jerk his head away, the same pressure around the back of his skull stopped him.

Bizarrely, the thought burst in his head, _this isn’t fair!_

It was breaking all the rules. This monster wasn’t a Joxter, wasn’t something any mortal could beat – he was _cheating_.

The next muffled scream was one of injustice and rage, but it was swiftly terminated when ink flooded into his throat. Then Snufkin gagged. Saliva and ink drooled from his lips.

Happy’s high-pitched laughter drowned out Snufkin’s choking. Panic quickly overtook rage, because he couldn't breathe. The horror of it was enough that he didn’t realize what the Joxter was doing until his pants were down and the Joxter had already eased himself inside, rutting in him like a dog. His paws clenched over the canoe’s edge on either side of Snufkin’s.

Snufkin was leveraged awfully between the two of them; Bendy using his mouth and Joxter his cunt. Bendy wasn’t moving much, but every sharp snap of the Joxter’s hips jammed ink further into Snufkin’s throat.

Snufkin tried to dissociate. It was an art he’d perfected during his time in the other Joxter nest: dividing his physical self from his mental self. Being far, far away, and almost completely numb from whatever was happening. He’d done that when this Joxter had first raped him, but now he found the feat impossible.

There was nothing but enduring. Gagging, red-faced, spitting up stomach acid while his raw cunt was relentlessly fucked.

Finally it was over. The Joxter slid out, and exchanged words; Bendy, too, retreated.

Snufkin hung his head over the side of the canoe, spitting out the foul-tasting tacky ink.

“I told you dear,” said the Joxter, while Happy giggled and giggled, “if you won’t accept me, then I will give you to Bendy. Are you ready to behave yourself?”

When Snufkin twisted around, he found that the Joxter hadn’t climaxed at all – that he was still hard and eager. Before Snufkin could respond, Happy grabbed his hair and forced him into a very wet kiss. Happy licked ink from his lips as he pulled away. “Doesn’t he taste wonderful?”

“You’re insane-“ Snufkin choked out.

“I know what you are, but what am I?” came a cheery high-pitched voice, and Snufkin glimpsed Bendy, now tiny, perched on the back of the canoe.

Snufkin’s thoughts may not have been working right, because he decided right then and there that he was not going to spend another second here, and he promptly started to clamber out of the canoe.

“Nonono-“ two pairs of paws dragged him back, and he landed on top of Happy in a haphazard tangle of limbs. 

“Where are you going, love? You’re supposed to be putting your mouth to good use. You won’t bite now, will you?”

Snufkin didn’t understand. He thought it was over. But then again, the Joxter hadn't climaxed. Again he tried to squirm away, and this time Happy’s arms and legs wrapped around him.

“Just be good,” Happy instructed, giggling. “You should be so grateful. It’s wonderful to have purpose, isn’t it?”

“Fuck you.”

“Do you wanna?” Happy said, while Joxter made an offended noise and added, “come now, Snufkin, I thought Happy was being downright polite. And you’re not going to behave, are you?”

“Jeez, I guess I better help a friend out again,” Bendy said, chipper as ever, and then there was a series of very wet and very disgusting sounds behind Snufkin, but he couldn't see because he was wrapped tight in Happy’s clutches and he was burning up, panicking –

Ink scrawled over his flesh, working up from his hips, along his stomach inside his shirt, up his throat, and then wedged his mouth open, conveniently for the Joxter to push himself inside. Snufkin thought that was the worst of it, until a long wet appendage invaded between his legs and he felt more full than he’d ever been before, more full even then when he had been traded off between a dozen Joxters, using him one after another.

Then just as now, his body was not his. It was just a tool, an object to be shared and violated. Except this time he wasn’t being shared to another Joxter. He was being shared to a monster.

“Oh, you’re so lucky,” Happy said under him, voice thick with envy.

Snufkin did not feel the least bit lucky. The Joxter fisted his hair, forced his head to bob. While this horrific treatment was going on, Snufkin could feel Bendy inside his body, undulating wetly and pressing against every wall. Thick enough that Snufkin was terrified his insides would split open.

Happy rubbed where the two of them met. “I’ve never had something so big in me before,” he said in awe, “what does it feel like?”

Snufkin wanted to retort, throw some insult, but that was impossible.

Happy giggled, kneading Snufkin’s stretched lips, then stroking along Bendy’s dick, and back again. “Wow, it looks like it hurts so much.”

Snufkin made a stupid spluttering noise. He was drooling saliva and ink in the Joxter’s lap. In another few moments, a third substance joined the mess, and he was yanked off the Joxter’s dick.

“Such a good son,” the Joxter purred, caressing his flushed cheeks.

Bendy, apparently, didn’t feel like stopping this time. Snufkin fisted Happy’s shirt, needing something, anything, to cling to (his broken wrist and arm burned whitehot). He prayed to pass out, and he was sure unconsciousness wasn’t far off. The world was already fuzzy at the edges.

“Are you tearing?” Happy was squirming. “Is he going right through all your organs?”

“Fuck you,” Snufkin choked weakly.

“I wish he would.”

Something about that got through to the monster. Bendy slid out, leaving Snufkin feeling empty and disgusting, while ink spilled from between his legs. Bendy shifted above him. Changing targets.

Snufkin didn’t see when the monster sheathed itself in Happy, but he did get a horrible up-close sight of Happy’s expression entirely coming apart: his thin lips formed a gentle o-shape, his cheeks twitched, his eyes scrunched. For several seconds he didn’t breathe, then a whoosh of air came out with a moan.

He arched his back, eyes slipping closed. His face evinced complete bliss. He clung to Snufkin’s shirt and shamelessly moaned. Snufkin wanted to vomit. He himself felt disgusting and wet and used, and everything was dizzy and unreal.

Then Bendy’s breaths, too, were huffing with something like need.

The Joxter said sternly, “darling, if you’re going to bring out the spikes, do it inside the new one, not Happy; you _like_ Happy-“

Huge teeth nuzzled at Snufkin’s spine. A wet tongue soaked through the back of his shirt. Snufkin recalled what the Joxter had said - spikes on every inch; a lot of spikes, a lot of inches. Out out he needed out, before that could happen. The world lurched. His paws scrambled at the canoe’s edge. Out, now. Sticky hands snared his wrists. More grabbed his hips.

“And not in the nest, _not in the nest_!” the Joxter added with rising alarm.

Snufkin went spilling out of the canoe with a waterfall of ink. He flailed, kicked himself upright, and shuffled pitifully backwards, his pants tangled around his ankles. From the ink materialized Bendy, small and smiling. “Come on, Jox, ya think I don’t have self control?”

“I think you looked very much like you were going to kill Happy, and spray blood all over my bed,” the Joxter said guardedly. "You haven't decided to replace him already, have you?"

Happy's head poked over the edge of the canoe, any trace of pleasure gone. " _Replace_ -?" 

"I wasn't gonna kill anybody." Snufkin trembled at the look Bendy fixed him with. “Just wanna shake Snuf up a bit. I like this one a lot. So _vicious_.” Bendy stepped closer, tail swishing, and laughed. It turned into a dumb little game, where Snufkin scooted away on his butt for every step that the demon advanced closer.

“Where ya going, Snuf?” Bendy chided, gaze black and inhuman. "Ya gonna run, huh? I love it when Snufkins run."

Snufkin let out a sob. This was a nightmare. Again and again he tried to apply some logic, some method to all this, a plan he could follow and make sense of. But the odds were completely stacked against him, and it had taken such a short period of time for all his defense mechanisms to be shredded.

Bendy chuckled. "But most of all, I love _catching_ Snufkins. So go on, eh? Run."

Snufkin didn't. 

 

 

 

 

The next day, Snufkin roused to find himself, surprisingly, alone. There was a rope trailing from his wrists to a nearby tree, but no Joxter, no Bendy. When he looked out into the clearing, he found Happy, hunched over and chopping shriveled vegetables on a smooth rock by the campfire. It was oddly quiet. Inappropriately quiet, after everything that had happened. 

"Where are they?" Snufkin asked through a raspy throat. No need to clarify who _they_ were. 

"Getting medicine," Happy replied shortly. "They said you're sick." 

"They're gone?"

"Yeah."

Snufkin's heart thudded. He couldn't believe his luck. "Then untie me. Let's get out of here!"

Happy glanced his way. His black Joxterish eyes were cold as ice beneath dark wild strands of hair. "No." He hunched over. _Chop chop chop_ went the knife. Happy itched under his pine-wreath crown. _Chop chop chop_. 

"Untie me," Snufkin demanded. 

Happy didn't respond this time. Snufkin didn't understand. Happy was delusional, obviously, but he'd always shown a sunny disposition towards Snufkin. 

"Happy," Snufkin growled. "Untie me!"

"Bendy and the Joxter said I need to watch you," Happy recited. "I'm supposed to feed you and give you water. Because they want you alive." There was a bitter, vicious tone to those last words.

Snufkin swore. "You're brainwashed. You don't know what's right. I get it. But untie me right now!"

"Bendy named you," Happy muttered.

"What?"

"Knifey. Because it's funny." Desperate, frantic, "and it is funny; it's very good. But-" Happy's eyes darted away.

"You're jealous," Snufkin realized out loud, in utter disbelief. 

"And you petted him last night," Happy added.

He did. Because Bendy told him he'd break a finger for every minute that Snufkin refused to pet him, and three broken fingers later, Snufkin decided his pride wasn't worth it.

"What are you even jealous _over_? They're insane. _You're_ insane - fucking untie me!"

Happy laughed, sharp and cruel. "I'm a good boy, Snufkin. They love _me_." He smoothed his free hand over his clothes, touched his wreath. 

"Great," Snufkin said frantically. "Let me go, and then you don't have to worry about me anymore."

The vegetables lay abandoned on the rock. Happy's fingers trailed along the edge of the blade. Up and down, up and down. 

"Happy?" Cautious, uneasy.

Happy looked up. Giggled. He'd sliced his fingers on the blade. Maintaining eye contact with Snufkin, he stuck the fingers in his mouth and sucked them. 

Snufkin regretted ever meeting him. Regretted ever trying to save him. If he got out of this alive, he wasn't going to save any more Snufkins. He wasn't going to go anywhere near any Joxter again. He was going to run and run and run until he found a place where nobody at all would want to live. Where he could be completely alone, and live and die in peace. 

Happy stood, smiling and smiling. The knife dangled from loose fingers. "They'll understand," he said. 

"What."

"It was uncooperative. It got ahold of a knife."

" _What_."

Happy brought the blade to his own cheek, and without flinching carved a thick line from his ear to his chin. "I was acting in self defense," giggled Happy, blood dripping down his jaw. 

Snufkin recoiled. He understood, then. "No."

"Just protecting myself." Happy hacked through his overcoat, just over his ribs, and sliced there, too. 

"Happy-"

But the demented Snufkin was approaching, eyes dark and grin wide. He looked all wrong, all bizarre, with ill fitting clothes and a pile of scarves wrapped around his neck, a flower crown settled in his hair, and a knife dripping blood in his hand. "They love me."

No. This couldn’t be where it ended. This couldn’t be – his life couldn't have been leading up to this- he can’t die-

Happy yanked up Snufkin's shirt, revealed the black words scrawled over his flesh.

Snufkin opened his mouth, as if he could say anything at all that would stop Happy. Because he had to stop him, he couldn't die here. This wasn't where his story ended. 

Then Happy drove the knife straight through the black letters. All the way to the hilt, all the way under Snufkin's ribs. 

Any words died. Snufkin stared the hilt. This wasn't possible. It couldn't be happening.

"He loves me," Happy said, voice suffused with rapturous pleasure. He wrenched out the knife, reared it back, and plunged it in. Again. Again. Again. Again...


End file.
